The way the leaves scrape
An unsung chorale of the pavement
They the solitary scribes of strangers thoughts
Collectors of the things that none were meant to hear
Whispered indiscretions
Rage that never bore the weight of sound
Love, unfulfilled
A cacophony of emotions damned to nonexistence
Faithfully recorded by the remnants of summer
Alternative realities of self made heroes
The demons of our darkest hours
Living together in the confidence of silence
Empty words as rain that fell too late
Cushioned from the pavement by foliage, fragile
Desiccated skin as witness to dreams unspoken
An ephemeral opus to lives we are not living

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